If You Fall
by krazykitkat
Summary: This isn't about revenge, it's about answers. That's all you want. KD


**TITLE: If You Fall**  
><strong>AUTHOR: Katkrazykitkat**  
><strong>RATING: PG<strong>  
><strong>DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters and places are the property of Shane Brennan Productions, CBS Television Studios and Belisarius Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.<strong>  
><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTES:<strong>  
><strong>1. Title lyric by Cyndi Lauper.<strong>  
><strong>2. This was supposed to be finished and posted before the new season started, but Deeks decided to be a pain in the arse. And then when I was finally getting somewhere again, 'Sacrifice' screened and I may have cried and nearly deleted this. Posting it now before I chicken out.<strong>  
><strong>3. 'If You Fall' is a companion piece to 'The second hand unwinds', but can be read as a stand-alone.<strong>  
><strong>THANKS: To Rinkle for the beta, and Jess and Shawn for thoughts and support.<strong>

* * *

><p>You can barely let yourself believe it. Your regular phone call to your father's best friend reveals a seemingly innocuous conversation between old marine buddies. But there's something about it that bugs you.<p>

You spend three nights trawling through your father's case files, even though you can practically quote them by now. It isn't until you're lying in bed on the edge of sleep that the pieces finally coalesce into something resembling a lead.

You nearly tell Hetty, but you know she'd have to hand it off to someone else and you're not allowing that. This is your father, your past, your nightmare, and you're going to be the one to end it. You promised him.

Over the next two weeks you contact various members of his platoon. You use the pretence of a daughter deciding to move on, trying to achieve closure without a resolution after fifteen long years. You now know the right questions to ask and you get the most information from those you are able to meet in person as alcohol loosens their tongues and memories.

Of course your partner notices something's going on and tries various methods (mainly involving food or pissing you off) to get you to open up. But you know him as well as he knows you and manage to block his attempts. This is your mission and you don't need or want help.

It's another week before you track down the last man you need to talk to. He's living in New Mexico, but agrees to meet you in a bar on the outskirts of LA on Friday evening. You're on edge the next two days. You barely sleep, going over and over the files and information you've gathered, becoming more and more certain of your suspicions.

Deeks pushes you to have dinner with him, but you brush him off claiming a second date. He says he'll buy you sympathy donuts on Monday and you punch him in the arm. You know he's not buying your story, so you turn off your cellphone and keep watch for a tail.

Your target's waiting for you in a booth, three empty glasses in front of him. He stands as you approach, takes your hand. Maybe it's the lighting, but there seems to be a yellow tinge to his skin. You order a light beer while he has another scotch. Small talk to start with, you ask after his kids – you were with his daughter at the movies that night, his son was the first boy you kissed.

You spin your story. Another couple of scotches and you've managed to shatter his alibi without him even realising. The triumph, the rush…burns off as you realise you don't have the evidence needed to even charge, let alone convict him. Hearsay, faulty memories, less than circumstantial. He's going to get away with it again.

You offer to drive him back to his motel. He dozes off, doesn't even realise you're taking the very scenic route until you stop the car and cuff him. He thinks it's his lucky day. You have to restrain yourself from wiping the grin off his face with your fist.

His expression quickly changes to confusion and then fear as you yank him out of the car and march him further into the scrub. He's too inebriated to resist beyond a token effort, plus your gun is pressed against his spine. You ignore the pleading peppered with insults.

He stumbles and falls to his knees. You leave him there, it's far enough away from the road and the area is mottled with shadows as the sun dips behind the surrounding hills.

"What the fuck do you want?" he slurs, as you lower your gun so it's level with his head.

You've stopped keeping tally of your kills and most of the time you don't even give them a second thought. Probably unhealthy, but they're the bad guys and usually threatening a civilian or your teammates or you. You do what you have to do to get the job done.

But this… Uncertainty prickles over your skin as you realise you're getting satisfaction from the fear in his eyes. You may even be liking it. You move your finger off the trigger. This isn't about revenge, it's about answers. That's all you want. Closure.

"Why did you kill my father?" Your voice is calm, level. You're scaring yourself a little.

He claims innocence. You hit him with your evidence. It sounds less compelling out loud. But you know it's him, it has to be.

"Kensi!"

Multiple voices calling your name. You look over your shoulder. How the hell did they find you? Fuck, the GPS locater in your car. A flash of anger at the violation of your privacy. You almost laugh considering what you're doing right now.

You turn your attention back to where he's trying to scramble to his feet. He resettles on his knees when you take a step closer, but you can see the hope in his face. You've lost your momentum.

Deeks, Callen and Sam take up positions around you.

His eyes flicker to each of them. "Help me, she's crazy."

"Did my father beg as you were killing him?" Your finger is back on the trigger. "You knew he was all I had. How did you face your family knowing you'd destroyed mine?"

"He's not worth it, Kensi," Sam says, his voice low and soothing. "It's not going to bring your father back."

You snort and shake your head. "And here I was thinking it would. Don't treat me like an idiot."

Callen takes over. "Okay, we won't. Don't destroy your career, everything you've worked for over this."

Your aim is still rock steady, but you can't stop the tremor in your voice. "_This_ is the reason I joined. This _is_ what I've been working for."

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" he shouts at them. "Just shoot her."

You've felt Deeks closing the distance. He stops just behind you, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back. You take a step forward but he follows, not breaking contact.

"Kens." Your name is a whisper from Deeks' lips. "I understand how you feel. But you didn't let me do it and I'm not going to let you."

You want to scream at him. How dare he compare the loss of a woman he screwed for a couple of months to that of the man who was everything to you. The person who gave you life and took the best part of you with him when he was killed. You owe him answers, justice. And if you can't get them when you're this close, what is the point of anything?

You don't say a thing. Gritting your teeth, you take the final steps and push the gun muzzle against the monster's forehead. The fight drains from his face. You hear the shock, the worry in the guys' voices, but their words are lost under the pounding of your heart.

Deeks is beside you, one hand still on your back, the other now cupped over your hands and the gun. You keep your eyes fixed on the man who took your father and broke you. You don't dare give Deeks even a side glance. You need to shut them out, you don't want them pulling you back to sanity. You want this over. No matter the cost to you.

"Just go," you say. "Just go and let me do what I need to do."

"We're not doing that," Sam replies. "We're not leaving without you."

Deeks tightens his grip and strokes his thumb over your hand. It's distracting, but if you try to break away from him it will give them an opening to disarm you. You're amused that you're still thinking tactically.

"It won't stop the nightmares, Kens. You'll just have new ones." He leans close and his breath fans your cheek. "I had no choice when I pulled the trigger. You do."

The raw edge underlying his words cracks your surface composure. Not enough for the man on his knees to recognise, but the guys see it. They close in: Callen to the back and left of you, Sam a few steps away almost level with your hostage. You can make him out in your peripheral vision.

You knew they probably were, it's standard operating procedure. But to have visual confirmation that their guns are trained on you? A silent sob wracks your chest.

Deeks feels it and starts to rub circles on your back. He doesn't say anything more.

These three men are your family. It took you time to let them in, and even though you all still have your secrets and a tendency to go lone-wolf much to Hetty's annoyance, the trust and love between you is unbreakable.

Until now. How can anything be the same once you've forced them to treat you as the hostile? How can they ever trust you again?

A total sense of despair sweeps through you and you think that maybe you should just do it. What have you got left to lose?

Your grip tightens around the gun and Deeks' touch falters as he registers it.

"Please don't," he says, his voice almost breaking. "Don't do this to us."

And it's at that moment you realise these three men are also your greatest weakness.

You can't make them accessories. And you can't make them live with your blood on their hands.

You suck in a deep breath, almost gagging at the sharp smell of urine. Taking three steps back, you lower your gun and make it safe. Deeks is forced to let go as you hand it over to him.

You avoid looking at them. You don't need to see their disappointment in you. They will never look at you the same way again and that hurts nearly as much as the loss you were trying to avenge. There's no other word for what you were willing to do, it ceased to be about justice the moment you offered him the ride. You didn't just step over the line, you shattered it.

And now you're alone again. It would have been better if you'd never let them in.

One last look at the focus of your rage. He's collapsed on the ground sobbing in relief. You're not sorry. You hope he felt even a fraction of the terror your father did.

You turn and walk away. Deeks calls after you, but you ignore him.

"I'm so sorry, Dad," you repeat over and over, the mantra continuing even as you drive home.

You hope he can forgive your failure, because you'll never be able to forgive yourself.

* * *

><p>She's ignoring you. You know she's home. Her car's in the drive and you heard her cellphone inside the five times you've called it in the last three minutes.<p>

Callen delayed you as long as he could, told you to give her some time. But you know her and time alone is the last thing she needs. You're not going to let her retreat into her shell. You refuse to lose her.

You stab the door bell again. And then start thumping on the door and shouting her name. She isn't going to be able to ignore you disturbing the neighbours.

You're contemplating breaking in when she yanks the door open. You don't give her the chance to brush you off or shut you out, you just push straight past her. You hear the door close behind you and turn to find her leaning her forehead against it.

She looks incredibly young and vulnerable: barefoot, the bathrobe swamping her frame, strands of wet hair sticking to the side of her face. And her expression... You wonder whether she looked anything like this at fifteen. You admire the woman she is, but you hope that she hasn't always been so controlling of her emotions.

The moment's over before you can take a step towards her. She straightens, face shuttered again, and holds up her hand. "I'm getting dressed," she says, and stalks off, her exit punctuated by the slam of the bedroom door.

You can't stand still, adrenaline and worry surging through your body. You pace around the living room and into the kitchen. Her car keys are on the counter, so it's unlikely she'll try escaping out her bedroom window. There's also two empty bottles of beer.

Back to the living room and another circuit through the kitchen. You know she's delaying, hoping you'll give up and go home. But you can wait her out. She'll need to surface for a sugar hit at some point.

You're debating between getting a drink yourself or knocking on the bedroom door when she emerges. Worn jeans and hoodie, her hair up in a loose ponytail. She heads straight for the kitchen and you follow, watching as she grabs another beer from the fridge. You don't say a thing as she swallows too much of it in one breath.

"Get it over with," she says, gesturing with the bottle.

You need to tread carefully, start with hope. "We'll find the evidence we need."

"No, we won't." Her laugh is short and harsh, the alcohol adding an edge of belligerence. "That was the only chance to make him pay and you took it away from me."

You don't say that she's probably right. She doesn't need to know that you've snooped through her files over the past week and come to the same conclusion. Absent a confession, the case doesn't even qualify as circumstantial. Maybe at the time it happened what she's found could have led to a line of inquiry. But fifteen years on, it's too little too late. It doesn't matter that she could be right.

The cop in you wants to ask what she found out tonight, but as her friend you know that encouraging her will end in only one way: her self-destruction. Instead you say, "Because you ending up in prison is a great solution."

"It would have been worth it." Another gulp of beer. "What have I got left anyway? I've destroyed my career."

For a second she falters and the lost girl surfaces. You take a step towards her and she takes one back, re-establishing control. "We've got your back. No one else needs to know what happened," you assure her.

"Sure. He's just going to keep his mouth shut." She emphasises each word with increasingly jerky movements of the bottle.

"He will." You, Sam and Callen agreed she's not to be told what happened after she left. There's enough of a risk that it'll come back to bite you on the collective ass, without her guilt forcing her to confess to Hetty to save you.

She's taken aback by the certainty in your tone, but drowns any curiosity in beer. After setting the empty bottle down on the counter with a heavy clink, she pulls the scotch from the cupboard and sloppily pours too much into a glass.

"Please go," she says, pointing in the direction of the door, and then throws back at least two fingers of scotch.

Your throat burns just watching her. You need to break through the wall of hurt she's hiding behind before she drinks herself into a stupor. And while you really don't want to pull that particular card, it's the only one you have left. "Your father wouldn't want this for you."

A world of fury erupts on her face and in her voice. "What the fuck would you know about what fathers want?"

As much experience as you have at ignoring your own daddy issues, you can't prevent the hurt (the shame) from showing on your face. You force it back down, this isn't about you. There is nothing she can say or do that will make you abandon her.

She turns back to the counter and pours an even larger glass. Her hands are starting to shake.

It's now or never. "That's enough, Kensi, enough." You grasp her forearm as she raises the glass to her mouth.

She wrenches free, hitting the glass on the edge of the counter top. It shatters in her hand.

"Shit," you say, momentarily stunned into inaction as you watch her open her hand, blood mixing with the glass and alcohol and dripping onto the counter and floor.

Regaining your senses, you grab her arm and pull her over to the kitchen sink, shoving her hand under running water. Only then does she react with a wince.

You're sure you've seen a first aid kit somewhere in the kitchen. You search through several cupboards before finding it. You pick out the shards of glass, hands shaking, apologising over each. She doesn't say a word and barely flinches, even when you pour too much antiseptic over the cuts. You think at least one needs a couple of stitches, but you know you'll never convince her to see a doctor. So you do the best you can, sticking her back together with band-aids, followed by a bandage.

You've just finished washing her blood off your hands when you feel her shake beside you. This time you react immediately, grabbing her elbow as her legs gives out. She ends up on the floor, leaning back against the cupboard with her eyes closed.

"Kens?"

She shakes off your hand. Opening her eyes, she raises her hands to back you off. "I'm fine. Just leave."

She hasn't said 'I'm fine' to you for at least a year. "That's not happening," you reply, sitting down next to her.

You watch as she bites her lip and digs her fingernails into her uninjured palm. You're the one who grimaces as she stretches her cut hand as far as she can within the confines of the bandage. You want to grab her hands, tell her to stop, that it won't help. But you can't risk derailing her breakdown.

She starts to tremble and pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and rocking. It's only then, when you're sure she's past the point of no return, that you place your hand on her shoulder.

She tries to be quiet, her body shuddering from the sobs she's holding in. Her muscles are taut beneath your touch and you rub her back. You feel her control waver and slide your hand back to her shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze.

She breaks, the hurt pouring out of her in waves.

She is your partner, your best friend. But this is the first time you've seen her really cry. Your instinct is to wrap your arms around her and hold her tight. At least give her the physical comfort she'll deny she needs. Yet the rational part of your brain holds back, not wanting to add to the embarrassment, the humiliation, you know she's going to bury herself under.

Your decision is made for you when she starts to hyperventilate. And then something you didn't think Kensi Blye was capable of: she panics.

You clasp her hands between yours, careful to exert enough pressure for her to focus on but not hurt her any more. You talk to her, not really aware of what you're saying beyond using her name at regular intervals.

She slowly calms, the pain and panic receding as exhaustion takes over. You slide your arm around her shoulders and she doesn't fight you. You're surprised when she lowers her head to rest on your shoulder.

You have no idea how long you've been sitting here, what you do know is that your ass is going numb. But it's only when she grows heavy against you, giving in to sleep, that you dare to move. "Come on, Kens, your bed will be more comfortable."

She lets you haul her to her feet, too washed-out to even attempt it on her own. She just stands there, eyes glazed, uncertain what to do. You give her a minute to make the move under her own steam, but when she doesn't, you lead her to the bedroom. Stopping in the doorway, you watch as she collapses onto the bed. You briefly wonder whether you should help her change, but there have been enough lines crossed tonight without adding that one to the list.

"Get some sleep," you say, turning to leave.

"Marty." Her voice is hoarse and she coughs before continuing. "The towels are on the second shelf if you," she gestures vaguely, "want to take a shower."

You'd been intending to stay anyway, but to have her ask, even in a round about way, means so much more than you could ever explain. "That sounds like a good idea," you reply, pretending to sniff under your arms. "Thanks." And you hope she knows you mean for far more than the use of her water.

You close the door behind you and return to the kitchen to clean up the glass and blood. You consider pouring the remaining alcohol down the sink, or at least hiding the bottles. But she'll take that as a sign you don't trust her, and right now, the most important thing is that she trusts you enough to let you help support her through this.

It isn't until you're walking out to the car to grab your go-bag that you call Callen as promised.

"How is she?" he asks, dispensing with any greetings.

"She's..." You search for an appropriate word. "Safe."

"Okay," Callen replies, picking up at least some of the unspoken meaning. "You staying?"

You drop your bag on the curb and close the door, before leaning back against the car. "Yeah." You're the one who's never met a silence you can't fill, but you're struggling here.

"We'll be over tomorrow."

"Make it after midday," you reply, rubbing your hand through your hair. "Bring lunch."

"Okay." Callen is quiet for long enough that you think you've been disconnected, before continuing in his team leader tone, "She'll be all right. We'll make sure of it."

You nearly ask who he's trying to convince. Instead you make a non-committal sound and end the call. Picking up your bag, you walk back to the house but can't bring yourself to turn the door handle. You're hit by a desire to turn around, go home, and pretend tonight never happened.

"Open Sesame. Open Sarsaparilla." You shake your head. "Come on, man. There's already enough denial in this relationship. Open Saskatchewan." You force yourself to open the door and step inside. "So that was the magic word. And please stop talking to yourself."

You dump the bag on the couch and pull out boxers and a tshirt. The bathroom is across the hall from Kensi's bedroom and you stop and listen. All's quiet and you hope, though doubt, that she's asleep. Wanting nothing more than to check in on her, you resist temptation and enter the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind you.

You turn on the taps and strip off. The water is still warming as you step into the shower and stand directly under the spray. Adding more hot to the mix, it pours down over your face, hair and neck, the pounding sound on your head drowning out thought.

Your body slowly starts to relax. You increase the water some more and place your hands on the wall, angling so it hits between your shoulder blades and flows down your back. The tension seeping out undermines your defences and they start to crumble.

Resting your head against the wall, you let go.


End file.
